


Dark Water

by Jacqueline Albright-Beckett (xaandria)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Drowning, M/M, Puget Sound, Reverse Bang, Sea monster, Team Free Will, canon-level violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-07 09:51:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3170459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xaandria/pseuds/Jacqueline%20Albright-Beckett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam suspects that an ancient sea monster is behind the disappearances of fishermen in Seattle, but learning the extent of the truth during the case may be more than Dean, Sam, and Cas bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

>   
> 
> 
> Many thanks to Rachel for the beta and, of course, my partner-in-crime Shaya for the art. Find all the art in the consolidated art post [here.](http://shayasar.livejournal.com/110888.html)
> 
> _Author’s Note: Before I get angry reviews about Native American cultural appropriation, I’d like to take a moment to set some of my sources straight. While Tillicum Village does exist and is a cultural heritage center frequented by tourists, that is the only detail in this story which is actually a genuine representation of the Suquamish and other Salish-speaking tribes. Willatuk is a creature that was created in 2004 by Seattle filmmakers for a monster movie (they got the name by transposing the city name of Tukwila, which is thirteen miles south of Seattle). Prior to this, there have never been any mentions in any folklore or histories of a “sea monster” living in the Puget Sound. Willatuk and all the rituals and legends surrounding it were fabricated specifically for the entertainment industry and have never been a part of Salish lore, and as such have not been manipulated or appropriated from the Salish people for use in this story._  
>  _As a daughter of the Delaware Nation and descendant of the esteemed diplomat chief Black Beaver, I know first-hand that cultural appropriation for entertainment is a highly contested topic and even my use of fabricated legends will no doubt anger some readers. I do hope that it is apparent I have done due diligence in presenting this work of fiction in a respectful way and not simply as an excuse to use another culture’s history as a blanket folklore backstory._

“So get this.”

Dean looked up from the sandwich he’d been intently destroying. Sam looked at him expectantly, and Dean put down the sandwich with some reluctance. “Yeah?”

“Guy and his cousin are out fishing in Puget Sound, near Seattle, when their dinghy is attacked by something big. Cousin disappears. Guy describes the ‘something big’ as a sea monster.” Sam’s voice had begun to acquire that excited edge of having discovered a case they hadn’t worked before. “Two days later, a woman and her younger brother are out on a boat, same general area. She doesn’t see what happens, but their boat gets capsized too, and the next day her brother’s body washes up on the beach with ‘a pattern of abrasions,’ but they don’t say what kind of pattern. Dollars to donuts it’s teeth marks -- these teeth marks.” Sam spun the laptop so Dean could see the screen, and Dean politely looked.

It was a website typical of most resources they found about monsters: bad formatting, bullet points of sightings, no photographs to speak of. Dean wrinkled his nose at some of the artistic renderings; at least they all agreed on the general shape, though it looked disappointingly like the Loch Ness Monster. “Willatuk?” he asked, eyes scanning the name at the top of the page.

“It’s a Salish name,” Sam confirmed, bringing the laptop back around to face him. “This thing’s been in Native American legends since before white fur trappers showed up in the area. The Suquamish tribe even had a ritual that included it, but I can’t find out what it was.” Sam’s brow wrinkled as he clicked a few more times. “One trapper’s diary says something about ‘sated by the blood of the firstborn son.’ But that doesn’t pan out -- these tribes didn’t partake in ritual sacrifice.”

“It’s always firstborn sons,” Dean grunted. “So, what, you think Flipper’s on the prowl?”

“Well, in both attacks, none of the victims were firstborn sons,” Sam pointed out. “If this monster was a way of life a few centuries back, and it needed some sort of tribute from a firstborn son to make it stop attacking people…” He trailed off, looking at Dean expectantly.

Dean stared at the logo on the back of the laptop screen for several moments, calculating driving distances and fuel costs in his head and weighing them against the likelihood that this was actually a case. “You wanna chuck me in the water to make a prehistoric monster stop attacking fishermen?”

“Well, first I was thinking we could check out the body. Then discover more lore from the cultural center on the island near the attacks,” Sam shot back. “They’ve got people from the area tribes there doing demonstrations -- with the recent drive to preserve native history, there’s a good chance they’ll know more than a website that uses blue Comic Sans on a green background.”

Dean suppressed a sigh. Sam clearly had the bit in his teeth now, and truth be told there wasn’t much of anything else going on. The calm in the eye of the storm between the new state of affairs in Heaven and the barely-controlled chaos of Hell had stretched to a point where Dean suspected it might continue out of habit. Reluctant as he was to leave the center of the country, where any case was no more than two days’ drive away, this was the only action worth checking up on that had crossed their radar for two weeks.

“Let’s do it,” he said finally, picking up the remains of his sandwich. “After lunch.”

 

* * *

  
  


The third hour of driving was when things started to get stale, the upholstery and windows oppressive, the endless vibration of tires on asphalt wearying. It was when Dean was always most tempted to make a long pit stop and get out and stretch, flinging his arms out and breathing deeply as though he’d been nearly drowned, but he knew better: if he could hold out for one more hour, everything would fall into the reliable pattern of simply being on the road. He could drive all night long if he could just get to hour four without stopping.

After hour four they could pull off at a gas station. Sam could get his typical Power Bar and orange juice, bring Dean a package of Funyuns and styrofoam cup of coffee sludge with only a slight judgemental look. Dean would screw the gas cap back on and they’d fold themselves back down into the seats and be off again. They could go another four hours before needing gas again, and possibly needing to switch drivers; enough of these tried-and-true cycles and they could get anywhere. Dean didn’t even need to say anything to Sam about it. They’d been doing it for so long that it was almost ritual.

Trust Cas to throw a wrench into the works.

It was just outside Rapid City, South Dakota, when Dean felt his phone vibrate against his hip. He wrestled it free, glancing down at the caller ID before swiping his thumb to answer -- then tossed it to Sam.

“Answer that, will you?”

With a bemused look, Sam thumbed the phone on and brought it to his ear. “Cas. What’s up?”

Dean could hear the rumble of Cas’s voice from the receiver, but not the words. He could guess what they’d been, though, when Sam replied, “He’s driving. We found a case.” A pause. “In Seattle, actually. Sea monster, we think.” Dean chanced a look to the side, timed perfectly to see Sam’s eyebrows rise in surprise. “Coeur d’Alene? That’s a bit far afield.”

“What’s he doing in Coeur d’Alene?” Dean asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

“Getting his car stolen, apparently,” Sam replied before returning to the conversation. “Let me put you on speaker,” he said before Dean could gesture to the contrary.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean said, trying not to sound reluctant and failing.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas replied from the tinny cell phone speaker.

“So. What’s exciting in Coeur d’Alene?” Dean asked after a beat.

“A medical examiner was collecting retinas,” Cas replied in his typical just-the-facts monotone.

“Like you do,” Dean prompted when it seemed the ex-angel was not going to be more forthcoming. Ex-angel? Quasi-angel? Dean didn’t know what Cas was anymore.

“I wasn’t able to figure out what she was doing with them,” Cas replied. “She had them all laid out, preserved, in a grid on her kitchen table. Like a patchwork quilt. Dozens of them. My best guess is some sort of scrying spell.”

Dean shuddered. “God, witches are weird.”

“Your car got stolen?” Sam interjected.

“Yes.” A hint of embarrassment colored Cas’s voice. “There wasn’t anything important in it, but...I’m currently at a loss for transportation.”

This time Sam saw Dean’s wild negative gesticulations, but ignored them. “If we hit 90 going west, we should be able to swing through Coeur d’Alene and get you,” he said, glancing defiantly at Dean, who set both hands to the steering wheel in frustration.

“That would be good,” Cas said slowly, “because I’m beginning to get some unfriendly looks.” A pause. “I think they recognize me.”

“From what?” Sam asked.

“He was all over the TV a few years back,” Dean reminded him, speaking overly loud to ensure Cas could hear him. “When he was playing at being God.”

“This part of town is particularly religious,” Cas added, apparently not catching that Dean’s remark had been an attempted dig. Or, more likely, deliberately misinterpreting it. “No doubt some of them remember.”

“Well,” Sam said, “we’ll be there by noon tomorrow. Try to lay low until then.”

“Right. Thank you, Sam.” The line clicked, and Sam turned off the speakerphone just before the three beeps of the disconnect alert. He wordlessly handed the phone to Dean, who dropped it in his jacket pocket, lips pressed together in a thin line.

Several miles had rolled away beneath them before Dean took a breath. “Wasn’t going to take 90 west.”

Sam blinked. “Dean, that’s the only major highway west from here. What, were you planning on backtracking all the way back down to 80?”

“To avoid Cas? Probably.” Dean flicked on the headlights unnecessarily; dusk was only just beginning to touch the east edges of the sky, but he needed something to do with his hands.

Sam scoffed. “Look, I know you guys fought about something --”

“We didn’t fight.” Dean stared straight ahead.

“Fine. You disagreed. But he’s in trouble -- or he could be -- and I doubt he’s up to stealing another car. Especially if he’s being watched.”

“I know,” Dean interrupted, more snappish than he’d intended. “We can’t just leave him there.” He shook his head. “This is the last time I call his bluff,” he muttered under his breath.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He let his eyes glaze over in a soft focus on the road in front of him. It’d be hours before he had to deal with the complications of having Cas on a case with them, and even then they’d hopefully be distracted by a riveting and intellectually challenging case.

Maybe with enough forced polite proximity, they could forget they’d ever said anything and go back to being the friends they had been the week before.

 

* * *

  
  


It was Sam behind the wheel as they pulled into the parking lot of the unimaginatively-named Coeur d’Alene Extended Stay Inn, that particular species of motel that made one want to check to make sure his hepatitis vaccines were up to date. Sam wasn’t sure whether an additional “5” had fallen off the sign in front, or if rooms really were $4 a night -- he was prepared to believe it.

Cas must have been watching for them; no sooner had Sam cranked on the parking brake than the angel emerged from one of the ground floor rooms, a single duffel bag slung over one shoulder. Sam couldn't help but notice that despite the sullen mope that Dean had fallen into these last few hours as they drew near the Idaho town, his brother still visibly perked up at the first sight of the long tan coat.

Sam unfolded himself from the driver's seat and stepped around to the back of the car to pop the trunk. He was slightly surprised when Cas pulled him into a rough one-armed hug; no matter how frequently Cas administered them, Sam didn't think he'd ever get used to the angel showing actual affection.

"Hey," he said, patting Cas's back awkwardly to let him know it was time to stop hugging. Cas was still working on timing. "It's good to see you, too."

"Thank you for coming," Cas said, stepping back and letting the duffel bag slide down from his shoulder into the trunk of the car.

Sam shrugged, turning the gesture into a reach upward to slam the trunk shut. "It was on the way." No use saying that if they hadn't already been on their way, Cas would likely have been hitchhiking wherever he'd planned to go next. Sam wasn't sure how deep the cuts of the fight he'd overheard went, but if Dean was still in a funk about it...

Cas nodded thoughtfully, eyes flicking to the driver's seat, where Dean was settling back in. "Daylight's burning," Dean called, not targeting his voice specifically at either Sam or Cas.

"I'll sit in back," Cas said in a low voice, and Sam nodded grimly. He reached up in a brief clasp at Cas's shoulder.

"It's good to have you back," he said softly. "Despite what he says, I think he's glad to have you, too."

"I wouldn't bet too much money on it," Cas replied dubiously as he yanked the rear door open.

  
  


* * *

 

 

Dean was willing to admit that his affinity towards the cheapest motels possible was a holdover from the numerous times he'd had forty dollars in his wallet and a drunk father he needed to stash away while he worked on turning that forty dollars into four hundred. Certainly since Charlie had set them up with untraceable bank accounts -- she'd never explained where the funds came from before she'd scampered off, and they'd never asked -- they could afford to stay in places where the linens were actually white, and they could undoubtedly manage their own rooms.

But old habits die hard, and Dean would be damned if they were going to pay three hundred a night to stay downtown when they could drive for fifteen minutes the next morning to get where they needed to be. Thus, their motel for the evening boasted hourly rates, and should Dean fancy, there had been streetwalkers of both male and female varieties who were not at all bashful about their professions not a block down the street just outside called Aurora.

He also had to admit that he liked the way it made Cas look distinctly uncomfortable. His hideout in Coeur d'Alene looked like a Four Seasons compared to this place. Dean smirked as he tossed his duffel bag onto the bed. "Rock paper scissors for the rollaway," he announced to no one in particular.

Sam snorted. "Between you and Cas," he said dismissively as he toed off his shoes. "I don't fit on them."

"I'll take my chances on the rollaway," Cas said, setting his bag down on the floor. Dean wondered if he should say something about bedbugs, then decided against it. If the carpet had bedbugs, so did the rest of the room. He was suddenly doubting his wisdom, or lack of it, in his choice of accommodations.

"Thought you didn't need to sleep anyway," Dean said, the first words he'd said directly to Cas all day. He was surprised at how his stomach twisted when he met Cas's eyes. Guilt, he supposed, and yet he couldn't seem to say anything that wasn't limned with malice.

"I could say the same about you," Cas said coolly, but when Dean's mouth shot open to reply, Cas held up a belaying hand. "I'm more human than anything else," he said, looking down, "and I am tired. I could use the sleep."

There was a peace offering in those words, an offer to let it lie and face what the morning brought. If Dean was smart, he'd grasp it.

Sam cleared his throat, and Dean jumped; it occurred to him that he'd been pondering whether or not to let the feud continue for so long that the tension must have been enough for Sam to chew. "What time should I set the alarm for?"

"Seven's good," Dean replied. Cas had taken the opportunity to sit on the edge of the rollaway, which creaked threateningly. Dean shook his head and rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. "I'm going to wash the car off me. If I'm not out in ten, interrogate the shower curtain."

Dean could hear Sam and Cas talking, even over the hiss of the old pipes; about the case, mostly, but after a long pause: "Cas, are you all right?"

"As well as can be expected," Cas replied. "There wasn't much of my Grace left in Claire, but it's mine -- no more countdown clock, which is a relief, but I don't think you could call me an angel by any means." He sounded tired. "I can't hear Angel Radio or prayers, can't heal much more than a papercut..."

Sam cleared his throat. "That's not what I meant."

There was a beat. Dean convinced himself that he wasn't listening, he was overhearing: it was their fault they couldn't keep their voices down. He rubbed his palms roughly over his scalp to dislodge any persistent suds, and almost didn't hear Cas's response of "I don't really want to talk about it."

Well, that made two of them. Dean toyed with the idea of staying in the shower long enough to let Cas feign sleep when he emerged. He decided against it. The shower curtain did look suspicious, and he didn't want it getting any ideas.

 

* * *

  
  


Morning found them, if not well-rested, at least not at the tail end of a day and a half of straight driving. In the usual stupor of before-coffee shuffling, the three of them pulled on suit jackets and slacks, straightened ties, stowed badges, and shined shoes with motel washcloths until the wingtips looked presentable. Dean ran a wet comb through his hair as Cas lurked behind his shoulder, studying his reflection in a corner of the mirror, rubbing his chin.

Dean raised an eyebrow at Cas in the mirror. Cas let his hand drop. "Just wondering if I look too unkempt to be an FBI agent," he said, stepping back.

"If you're unkempt, Sam doesn't have a hope," Dean replied lightly, forcing geniality into his tone. It was a tall order, especially before coffee, but the sour knot of resent that had crouched in his stomach the day before had dissipated -- not completely, but enough. It was the prospect of working a case, he was sure. Putting on his game face always pushed unimportant things aside.

"Don't have a hope for what?" Sam asked from the other side of the room.

"This is Seattle. Everyone has hipster beards." Dean turned and patted Cas's unshaven cheek before sidling out of the bathroom, berating himself for the move even as he made it. That sort of thing was exactly what had brought up that goddamned fight to begin with.

Cas didn't say anything, just took his place at the sink with a comb of his own. "So first to the morgue to see the victim. Then what?"

"Well," Sam said, deciding his tie knot was lopsided and pulling it apart to try again, "that depends on if the body's weird. If it is, we go looking for more lore on Willatuk." He shrugged. "I guess even if it isn't, we go looking for more lore on Willatuk."

“If we have to go looking for more lore either way,” Cas said slowly, “why don’t Dean and I go look at the body while you research, and we’ll meet you after?”

Dean paused in the act of checking the load in his gun, looking suspiciously up at Cas, who continued to comb his hair in the mirror with an air of nonchalance. Sam glanced between the two of them, clearly reluctant to weigh in on his opinion. “Are you sure you two…” Sam trailed off.

“We’ll be fine,” Dean decided shortly. “It makes sense. Split up, do our thing, come together and make sense of it.”

“If you’re sure,” Sam said, cinching the knot in his tie.

“Yeah.” Dean shoved his gun into his waistband beneath his jacket. “Yeah, it’ll be peachy.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Agent Simmons,” Dean said brusquely, holding up his badge. He waited for Cas to make his own introduction, but after the pause lengthened, he shook his head and continued. “We’re here to see the body of Alex Turner from a few days ago.”

The woman at the desk behind the plexiglass looked unimpressed. “Why is the FBI interested in a drowned body?” she asked flatly.

“Uh,” Cas said, pushing himself forward, “technically, the FBI isn’t.” Dean blinked and tried to keep the surprise from his face as Cas flashed a small silver badge Dean hadn’t seen before. “I’m Joel Pruner, with Fish and Wildlife. I emailed the station a day ago to ask if I could see the body, but when I didn’t get a response --” Cas gestured at Dean -- “my friend here thought he might be able to open a few doors for me.”

Still suspicious, but markedly less so, the woman put down her pen. “And why does Fish and Wildlife want to see it?”

“‘Pattern of abrasions’ usually means ‘teeth marks’ in police-speak,” Dean interjected, not wanting to be left so far out of Cas’s narrative that they decided he was unnecessary.

“And if that’s what they are,” Cas continued with a sidelong glance at Dean, “I need to determine what did it, and if the animal can be trapped and relocated before it’s violent towards another human. If not, we might have to put it down.”

“Well, I hate to break it to you,” the woman said, “but the body was claimed by the family shortly after the autopsy was finished. I’m fairly certain they had it cremated.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Cas managed after a moment of stunned silence.

“Any chance we could look at the autopsy report?” Dean asked. He jerked a thumb at Cas. “All he’s gotta see is the bite pattern.”

The woman raised an eyebrow at him. “Let me go check,” she allowed, pushing back her chair and standing. “Have a seat. Help yourselves to some coffee.”

“Fish and Wildlife?” Dean asked once he was sure they were alone, dumping a packet of creamer into the paper cup.

“Fish and Wildlife has a perfectly valid reason to be looking into this; the FBI doesn’t,” Cas explained, keeping his voice low. “You and Sam are too dependant on the FBI ruse nowadays. It makes people defensive.”

“It gets shit done,” Dean replied, lowering himself into a chair across from Cas. “Doesn’t matter if they’re defensive about it.”

“If they get too defensive, they don’t want to help you,” Cas retorted. “And then where would you be?”

“‘Scuse me,” Dean said, putting down his coffee and leaning forward, “are we still talking about the FBI act?”

“Yes,” Cas said flatly, “but we can project this onto other current difficulties if you’re so inclined.”

Dean’s jaw snapped shut, perhaps to give his mind better insulation to compose a comeback, but at that moment the woman from behind the desk opened the door into the lobby. Dean fought to keep disappointment from pulling his features downward when he saw she did not carry a manila folder, but a business card, which she handed to Cas with only a sidelong glance at Dean.

"The report's in the national database, and it's not restricted -- your friend should be able to pull it up with that reference number," she said with false cheer. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"No," Cas said quickly, tucking the card into his inner jacket pocket. "Thank you. You've been very helpful."

"I hate technology," Dean muttered as they turned to leave. "And where did you learn how to lie so well?"

"From you," Cas replied, unruffled.

Dean shook his head as he yanked open the car door, thankful at least that there was no parking ticket on the windshield. "I hope Sam is having better luck."

  
  


* * *

 

 

Sam let the book fall shut with a muffled, papery clap and sighed. "I hope Cas and Dean are having more luck than I am," he muttered to himself, pushing the book into the pile of similarly unhelpful resources.

The Seattle Public Library had appeared promising, a twisted glass building with an extensive section on native history and folklore that the librarian had been very enthusiastic about helping him navigate. Indeed, the very first book Sam had opened had boasted an entire page and a half on the legend of Willatuk, and he'd fallen upon the additional tomes with high expectations. But an hour later, the first book and its now meager-seeming paragraphs continued to be the only mention of the creature.

He picked it up again, weighing it in his hands before turning to the page he'd marked, which told him not much more than he'd already discovered from the badly formatted website. Flipping to the back, he debated again calling the university where the author worked, then decided he didn't have much to lose.

It cost forty-five cents to photocopy the pages of interest, and Sam almost felt bad when he glimpsed the expression of the library page who had to reshelve all the volumes Sam had been instructed to leave on the table. At least they were all the same section.

Sam expected to be bounced around the labyrinth of the telephone system and end up in the dead end of a voicemail box that didn't even belong to the person he wanted; he was surprised when a receptionist transferred him to a phone that rang twice before being picked up by none other than Sarah Rosenthal, the very person he'd been trying to reach. Chalk one up to luck, then, he thought as he shifted the phone into a better position against his ear, stepping out of the way of the foot traffic on the sidewalks. "Ms. Rosenthal," he said, looking around to try and locate a quieter place to talk. "My name is John Connor," he continued, the alias slipping off his tongue before he realized that perhaps he should have chosen something more believable if he was going to talk to a professor of folklore. "I'm doing some research into the more obscure Native American myths and legends, and I read your book -- Origins and Omens of the Salish Northwest? I was hoping you had some time to answer some questions I've come up with."

"Obscure legends?" Rosenthal sounded surprised, but pleased. "You've certainly called the right person. Is this for a book?"

"A blog, actually," Sam said, finally locating a bench and sinking down onto it, pulling a pad of paper and a pen from his jacket pocket. "It's not up yet," he added hurriedly. "I want to have several articles written for a good buffer before I launch it." Easy enough for her to assume that he'd simply lost interest in the project if she went looking for just such an article later.

"Are you interested in anything in particular? I have a class in half an hour, but I could get back to you later today."

"That'd be great," Sam replied with sincere honesty. "I'm having a lot of trouble finding anything about the creature called Willatuk."

Rosenthal made a clucking noise. "Now, that one, I don't know how much I can help with," she said with a note of sympathy. "Willatuk was a hyper-localized spirit, and his influence wasn't mentioned much outside of being a unique peculiarity of the Suquamish tribe in and around the Puget Sound. Stories about Raven and Beaver would travel up and down the coast as morality tales, but stories about Willatuk didn't travel far, and for some reason stopped being told and passed down entirely in the early 1800s."

"Why?" Sam pressed.

"They lost relevance, most likely," Rosenthal replied. "Willatuk was considered the guardian spirit of the waters, and largely territorial of the fish and seals to be found -- every new hunter in the tribe had to fight Willatuk to prove worthiness to hunt in his waters. But when the white settlers came and founded Seattle, pushing many of the natives off the land, it was a tradition that fell into disuse as the tribes moved away from the area."

"Were there actually incidences of really fighting Willatuk?" Sam asked intently, pen poised over the pad of paper.

"Are you asking if Willatuk was real?" Rosenthal sounded amused. "The stories sound much more prosaic and practical than most of the oral traditions of the Salish tribes, which does lead me to believe that perhaps there was once some megafauna that resided in Puget Sound that could have been the basis of the legends. The native tales themselves never describe what Willatuk looks like, you know, aside from its size."

"What about the eyewitness accounts?" None of this was particularly useful, but Sam was not surprised to find himself becoming caught up in the details of the story. Dean would want to know how to gank it and little else; Sam liked having a whole picture.

"More likely, the white trappers saw the tall, thin dorsal fin of an orca whale," Rosenthal said dismissively. "If you're not prepared for it, such a thing can definitely look like the head and neck of a large creature if you're seeing it from a distance, and most of these trappers had never seen an orca before. Before shipping took over Elliott Bay and Puget Sound, orcas came very near to the shores."

"So Willatuk is -- was -- likely just a whale."

Rosenthal hesitated. "I don't want to say yes," she said. "The Suquamish refer to orca whales distinctly when they talk about them."

"But wouldn't they find remains of something so big if it died?" Sam asked.

"Puget Sound is very deep," Rosenthal replied. "Most of the mapping of its floor was done by sonar. There are portions of the bottom of Puget Sound never seen by human eyes."

The call waiting beep sounded in Sam’s ear, and Sam lowered the phone long enough to glance at it. Dean could wait. “The ritual mentioned in your book -- do you know anything more detailed about it?”

“I’m afraid I don’t,” Rosenthal said. “The young gentleman I interviewed was secretive about it, as he had a right to be. He’s a docent at Tillicum Village now, though, so he may be more willing to share his experiences than when he was younger. Tell you what -- I have to go get ready for my lecture, but if you give me your number, I’ll consolidate some of my notes and make a few calls, and maybe call you back today or tomorrow?”

“That would be very helpful,” Sam replied. After a hasty set of goodbyes, Sam tucked away his pad of paper and brought his phone to his ear again.

“Dean? No, no leads, not really...but I think we’re gonna need a boat.”

 

* * *

 

“I’m not sure I agree with this particular instance of vehicular theft,” Cas said doubtfully as Dean pulled away the panel beneath the wheel of the small pleasure yacht.

“It’s just a boat,” Dean replied, sounding rather odd to himself as he twisted to better see the wires. “It’s probably insured. And we’re gonna bring it back; it’s not like we can take it with us.” He studied the wires in front of him; hotwiring a boat couldn’t be that much more difficult than hotwiring a car. “Hand me the wire cutters.”

They’d chosen this boat for three very good reasons: it was close to the edge of the marina, it was big enough for them to stay on for a few days in relative comfort, and Sam identified it as similar to the one his college girlfriend’s family had owned and claimed he would likely be able to captain it. Sam’s expression had gone flat when he’d brought up this information, and Dean knew better than to heckle.

It was, in fact, remarkably easy to hotwire the ignition, and Sam managed to maneuver them out of the marina with surprising ability Dean would not have guessed his brother possessed. He wondered how many boat trips Sam and Jess had taken together, then decided that was an avenue of thought best left alone. “So what’d you find out about Willatuk?” he asked instead, leaning back on the narrow bench that surrounded the cockpit. He glanced up as Cas took a seat at the opposite end, making the cockpit very cramped.

“Not much,” Sam admitted. On the open water now, he had to devote much less attention to steering, though he continued to watch for obstacles. “Big creature who was a spirit of Puget Sound. Protected it, according to lore. A newly of-age hunter had to basically battle it for dominance of the waters -- but not kill it. The book was very specific about not killing it.” He shifted. “Dean,” he said after a moment, “it seems really crass to be trying to hunt a -- a cultural artifact.”

Dean blinked. “You were the one who found the case,” he said slowly.

“I know. But I thought it was just a monster.”

“It’s killing people.”

“It’s not in the right time anymore,” Sam protested. “Something woke it up and it’s trying to find someone to battle. I think -- if it’s the same creature as it has been all these centuries -- that it was just trained to react a certain way and it’s just acting according to its conditioning.”

“Wait,” Dean said, holding up a hand. “Are we talking about an animal or a spirit?”

“They’re one and the same,” Cas interjected. “The spirits of the Native peoples weren’t gods, they were a -- an avatar, a presence that connected them to the earth and to humans.”

“Right,” Sam agreed. “They didn’t worship Willatuk, any more than they worshipped beavers or salmon. But they paid respects, as fellow living beings, and in Willatuk’s case it meant earning your right to hunt in its territory.”

“So Willatuk’s an animal,” Dean clarified. “Not something intelligent.”

Sam let out a fast, dissatisfied sigh through his nose. “We can’t know that,” he said, shaking his head. “If it’s the same one, it’s old -- several hundred years old -- and you don’t tend to see that sort of thing without some sort of intelligence.”

Dean ran a hand over his face. “So we challenge it to battle, beat it -- and then it goes away?”

“That’s what the book says,” Sam said slowly.

“For how long?”

Sam shrugged. Dean sighed and pinched at the bridge of his nose.

“Normally I’d just say stick a bullet in its eye, but if we don’t know that’ll kill it, and we don’t want to kill it anyway…” He threw up his hands. “Fine. How am I supposed to challenge this thing?”

  
  


* * *

 

 

“Exactly how much longer do you want me to float around here bleeding?” Dean demanded through chattering teeth.

Sam sighed explosively, peering once more at the open, empty waters around them. “Do you see anything, Cas?” he asked with a hopeful air, as though Cas’s eyesight could penetrate the water. For that matter, Dean wasn’t positive that it couldn’t, but then again the angel’s mojo had been running with its needle nearly on empty for weeks now.

“Nothing,” Cas confirmed, shading his eyes against the sunset’s last beams on the water.

“Then I’m getting out,” Dean said matter-of-factly. “I’m shriveled like a prune and freezing.”

He accepted Cas’s hand as he hauled himself from the water to the deck, the salt water streaming off him in rivulets and collecting in a puddle at his feet. He massaged the crook of his left arm, which, now out of the cold water, had started to ache again at the spot where he’d had to continually reopen a vein to refresh the blood in the water. He wasn’t very good at estimation, but he guessed that over the last few hours he’d spilled about a pint of Dean Winchester into the waters of Puget Sound. It wasn’t something he wanted to think about.

“Here.” Cas handed Dean a rough towel, then tenderly grabbed Dean’s elbow and positioned his other hand over the crisscrossing cuts. An expression of utmost concentration slid over his face. Dean waited for the sharp heat and tingle that would accompany the healing.

Nothing happened.

Nothing happened for several more seconds, and as Dean watched Cas’s eyebrows draw closer together in bemusement and defeat, he gently pulled his arm away. “It’s good,” he grunted, pressing his thumb back to the freshest cut and taking a step back to lean against the bulkhead. Cas didn’t respond, but neither did he try to grab Dean’s arm again. “We bring anything to eat on this tub?” Dean asked loudly, substituting volume for ease of mind. “And do we have a plan B?”

“Plan B,” Sam said, tossing a bag of beef jerky to Dean as he emerged from the cabin below, “is waiting to see if this professor calls me back with any more specifics on the ritual. Could be we missed something.”

“Great.” Dean grabbed the open bottle of beer Sam had brought up as well, the condensation on the glass dissolving the salt that had dried in a crust on his hand. “Good to know all that floating around was for nothing.”

“We don’t even know for sure it’s Willatuk,” Cas pointed out gingerly. “For all we know, it could be a rabid orca whale.”

Sam raised an eyebrow at him, taking a swig of his own beer as he offered a third bottle to Cas. “Can whales even get rabies?”

“They’re mammals.” Cas shrugged and accepted the bottle. “It would take some extraordinary events, but it could happen.”

“Right.” Dean had downed nearly half the bottle in one pull; it reminded him that he should drink something that wasn’t alcoholic sometime soon. That’s what they did at blood donation centers, wasn’t it? Make sure everyone got juice and cookies after donating? Was it his imagination, or was the beer already starting to have a minute effect, him being a pint low? “Let’s assume it’s Willatuk and try again tomorrow morning. Sam, you want to chance making landfall and getting back to the motel?”

Sam shook his head. “No telling when the owner’s going to realize his boat’s gone. At least if we keep it out of the marina we won’t have to keep sneaking on and off it.”

“There’s a bed and a couch in the cabin,” Cas offered. “I slept last night. I can keep watch tonight and see if anything pays us a visit.”

Dean sighed heavily as he looked down at himself. The jeans and tee shirt he’d worn in the water had gone from streaming to merely dripping; he judged he wouldn’t ruin everything inside if he went to go change into something drier and warmer. “It’d be too easy if we took care of it in an afternoon, wouldn’t it?” he groused as he finished off the last of the beer and turned toward the cabin.

“Isn’t one of the late symptoms of rabies hydrophobia?” Sam asked suddenly.

“That would be an unfortunate thing for a whale to have,” Cas said gravely as Dean pulled the door to the cabin shut behind him. He couldn’t help but smile slightly.

  
  


* * *

 

 

The water lapped against the sides of the boat, the only sound that broke the silence other than the urban susurrus that echoed across the water from the city. Cas let his eyes fall into soft focus upon the water; the light pollution offered enough to see by, but he wasn't going to be seeing anything with any clarity unless it came close enough to the boat to cause some serious concern.

The chill in the air was easy to ignore, the intermittent breeze off the water slightly less so, driving the cold straight through him. Cas folded his arms more tightly about himself and took a step back towards the cockpit, where the beams offered some shelter from the wind, and succeeded in treading upon something soft.

"Ow," Dean said pointedly as Cas spun in surprise.

"Sorry," Cas said, stepping forward once more to the railing. Then, because humans tended to speak the obvious in times like this, "I didn't see you."

Dean shrugged, then leaned forward to rest his lower arms on the railing. "Anything?" he asked.

"No. It's very quiet." Cas mimicked his posture leaning against the railing. The deck was narrow enough that their shoulders almost touched; he imagined he could feel Dean radiating heat. "Can't sleep?"

"Nah." Dean rolled his shoulders in a stretch to accompany his next words: "That couch doesn't deserve the name. My back seat's more comfortable than that."

The motion Dean's shoulders made beneath the thin fabric of his tee shirt was distracting. Cas tore his eyes back to his study of the dark water, refusing to acknowledge that Dean had foregone most of his layers in his pursuit of sleep, including his jeans. "Aren't you cold?"

"Feels good." Dean didn't seem to be focusing anywhere at all; he would look up at the sky, shrouded in flat grey clouds; he would look at the water, which Cas could have told him was wildly uninteresting. With a sharp pang, Cas remembered that they were supposed to be upset with one another. Though, in his opinion, Cas had more right to be upset than Dean -- Dean was just embarrassed by the depth of emotion he'd shown, whereas Cas had been genuinely hurt by the words Dean had spouted in retaliation for Cas getting under the chinks in Dean's armor. And if Cas was willing to forgive that transgression, Dean should be gracious enough to --

"I'm sorry."

Oh.

"For what?" Cas asked. Dean had, after all, said a good many hurtful things.

Dean let out a heavy sigh and rubbed at his eyes, "I don't know. Everything."

Cas frowned. "That's not very specific."

"I said a lot of dumb stuff," Dean said, tone beginning to edge toward defensive, "and I don't even remember it all."

It wouldn't help for Cas to say that he remembered every word. He was supposed to be forgiving Dean, after all -- in many ways already had. "If you don't remember it, how can you possibly apologize for it?" It was possible that Cas was not nearly so close to forgiveness as he thought.

"Because I know it was stupid. And -- that it hurt." Dean swallowed, staring intently at the water. "I do care. I do. I mean, hell, I nearly killed a seventeen-year-old girl to keep you alive, of course I care."

Cas winced. The Grace inside him now was his own, a tiny wisp of it, the only remnant that Claire Novak had held within her from her brief time as Castiel's vessel. It had seen years and hardship and was a small, frail thing, but it was his -- there was no urgent sensation of waning like with the stolen Grace he'd survived upon since his fall. And Dean had indeed gone to great lengths to procure it for him. He'd burned every bridge they had with Claire to do it, and Cas doubted very much that Claire would forgive them -- but that was neither here nor now. "I know you care," he said quietly. "You just don't seem to be able to show it except in life-or-death gestures."

That earned Cas a flinch, driving them neatly to the point where Dean had first thrown out the poisonous words that now ghosted between them, remembered but unsaid. "I don't mean that you aren't worth it," Dean said slowly. He looked up, which struck Cas as a very brave thing to do just now, when it would be so much easier for Dean to simply say his words to the water. "I'm -- that sort of stuff..." Dean let his eyes fall to Cas's shoes, now, before lifting them again, squaring his jaw. "When I didn't have to do it anymore to feed myself, I left it behind," he said defiantly. "Never looked back. To go back to it... I'm sorry, man. It's not worth wading through the shitty flashbacks." He swallowed, and now his eyes fell to the deck and did not raise. "I don't want to have them about... about you."

Cas shut his mouth until more intelligent words could present themselves for duty. He'd known, of course -- he'd pieced Dean's very soul back together, and those memories of his very early adulthood were prominent in its shaping -- but for Dean to so bluntly admit it as the reason for his recalcitrance....

"I understand," he said softly. There was nothing else to say. Dean had given him the reason he'd demanded those weeks ago, and it was not something to argue with. Indeed, he felt coarse and distasteful for having demanded it. Normally, this was where he would step away, give Dean space to rebuild his shell about him, but there was nowhere to go on this boat except into the cabin, and there he would be forcing Dean to stay out in the cold in nothing more than shirt and underwear.

"Not that -- Cas, I --" Dean took a step closer, reaching an arm around to draw Cas close in a motion that set Cas's heart pounding, and he stumbled backwards --

But no, that was not due to Dean's touch at all. Dean's head whipped around, all pretense of lowered defenses gone; he looked like a hawk whose roost had just been shaken. "What was that?" he demanded.

It happened again, a giant hollow thud against the hull of the boat, but this was no mere rocking. Cas grabbed at the railing and missed as the boat was thrust out of the water at a wild angle, and lights bloomed at the edge of his vision as his teeth collided together, the side of his head slamming hard against something fiberglass and solid.

He had the impression of a great gray shape, and teeth, and a giant pearlescent eye, and Dean's strangled shout coming from very far away as cloying darkness gripped the edges of his vision and flowed inexorably inward...

 

* * *

  
  


"Cas!"

Reluctantly, Cas opened one eye, then the other. He felt himself being levered to a sitting position. Everything was wet and cold, Sam was babbling at him --

"Dean!" He was not ready to be on his feet, not at all, but he lurched up with the help of the railing on the boat to peer wildly around the surrounding water.

The waves their upset had made in the water were receding away from the boat, nothing so much as vague swells, hardly distinguishable from the regular motion of the water. "DEAN!" he bellowed.

"Cas." Sam laid a hand on Cas's shoulder, spun him in a dizzying motion. "What happened?"

Cas took a deep breath, skull throbbing angrily. "Willatuk. He knocked the boat around, he -- he took Dean."

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Everything spun.

Coughing was a terrible idea, but Dean couldn't seem to stop doing it, great hacking gags that set fire to his ribs with every motion, a distressing amount of salty water issuing from his mouth as he did so. At least, he hoped it was water: it seemed too cold to be blood but then he himself felt clammy and chill.

Slowly, fragments of consciousness fell together as his breathing became more normal, though everything continued to spin dizzyingly around him and the darkness clung oppressively to his eyes, impenetrable as a blindfold. Was he blind, or was it just dark? He'd hit his head hard, the back of it near the nape of his neck where he knew the vision parts of his brain were --

This was not a productive line of thought. Dean swallowed and forced his mind away from it. He couldn't see, and that was that. Take stock of what you’ve got, deal with it.

What he had, as he attempted to take a deep breath and aborted the effort early on, appeared to be several broken ribs. His fingers trailed over them, pressing gingerly, and not only could he find several disturbingly tender spots, his fingers came away sticky and warm from soft indentations he realized were puncture wounds.

All right. Broken ribs, possibly blind, oozing blood from several puncture wounds that he would bet good money were teeth marks, and it occurred to him that he was wearing no clothing at all. So no phone, no gun, not even a pocket knife. No food, no water -- he had no doubts that the soft lapping of water he could hear was the same brackish salt water that he'd been coughing up just a few minutes ago.

"I've been worse," he grunted aloud, and nearly pissed himself when a massive, snuffling grunt answered him not three feet from his head.

 

* * *

  
  


"Cas!" Sam pulled the angel away from the side of the boat, afraid that balance would abandon him at any moment and he would fall over the side. Cas wavered on the spot, a thin trickle of blood running down the side of his face, eyes frantic.

"We have to find him," Cas demanded, words slurred.

"We will," Sam promised, pulling Cas into the cabin of the boat. "Just -- sit down before you hurt yourself."

"Sam," Cas said, very seriously as Sam plunked him down on the narrow couch. "Dean is gone. Under the water somewhere. If we don't find him --"

"Which way did he go?" Sam interrupted. Cas stared blankly, horror dawning in his eyes. "Exactly."

"Sam," Cas said plaintively, "we can't just sit here."

"We won't," Sam said, fighting to keep his voice calm. "It's an hour until sunrise. By then we'll be circling Blake Island. We'll probably find Dean at the docks, having a beer and being surly about letting a sea monster get the jump on him."

They both knew it was a lie. It was a mile at least to Blake Island, in cold September water, with no indication in the dark of which way to swim. But it was a plan, of sorts, and something they could cling to. And if nothing else, they might come across something on the beach.

"Nothing in the lore says Willatuk is a maneater," Sam continued, reaching out to clap Cas on the shoulder. "We might find him a bit battered, but we'll find him."

Cas didn't appear to be listening, his eyelids drooping as he slumped against the couch. Sam pursed his lips. People with head injuries shouldn't be allowed to fall asleep, but Cas wasn't technically a person, and the time asleep would be infinitely more helpful than spending that same time working himself into a panic. Sam helped ease him down into a roughly comfortable position and covered him with the tattered throw blanket Dean had been using, then practically flung himself out of the cabin and up into the cockpit.

Cas was right. They couldn't just sit around. Sam tapped the ignition wires together and as the engine coughed to life, he turned them in the direction of Blake Island.

  
  


* * *

 

Time behaved oddly, rushing by in uneven dollops and then slowing to let Dean savor the smears of pain on every shallow inhalation. It was impossible to say whether minutes or hours had passed since he'd first awoken, or how long ago Willatuk had disappeared with a splash that sent salt water washing over him, chilling him down to the bone and leaving him shivering, clenching his teeth against the chattering that made his head hurt all the more.

There was air in the cave, Dean reasoned, evidenced by the fact that he wasn't dead. And a lot of it, because Willatuk breathed it, too -- Dean had listened in terror to the great bellows of the creature's lungs as it had slept, apparently unconcerned about Dean's presence. If this was Willatuk's lair, and the air hadn't been used up, that meant there had to be a place the air was coming from, some sort of exchange.

Which meant land. The cave had an underwater entrance, but it reached above the water level to supply air. And for it to be coming in massive enough quantities to keep Willatuk from asphyxiating, it had to be a large enough passage to allow escape.

How Dean was supposed to get to it, head refusing to acknowledge which way gravity told him was down and wavering somewhere between consciousness and what he suspected was something very near death, he had no idea.

As the thick fingers of not-quite-sleep dragged his mind down again, Dean took a breath and murmured to himself. "Cas, man, we had some really shitty last words."

  
  


* * *

 

Nothing.

The Coast Guard hadn’t let Sam get close enough to dock in the tiny marina on Blake Island; the entire island was closed, they told him over the radio, until the body of the first victim could be found and the “animal responsible” relocated. Calling attention to themselves by arguing might very well reveal that the boat was stolen, if the owner had discovered and reported the theft, and the last thing they needed at the moment was to be arrested and deterred from finding Dean.

Sam had made a circuit of the island anyway, coming as close as he thought he could get away with, and peering through binoculars showed him no signs of Dean, either alive or dead. He supposed that was a good sign, and tried not to think about how at least the Coast Guard was also combing the water for bodies.

The clock on his phone told him it was nearing ten in the morning. He supposed he should go down and wake up Cas. Perhaps they could figure out what they should do next. Would Willatuk show up if one of them spilled blood in the water? Neither of them was a firstborn son, but Jimmy Novak had been an only child, so perhaps they could fudge it.

Just before Sam put his phone away, it began to vibrate, an unfamiliar number on the screen with a Seattle area code. Sam blinked at it before sliding the answer bar. “Hello?”

“Hi, is this John Connor?” an uncertain male voice replied.

Sam’s heart skipped a beat. “This is John. Who is this?”

“My name is Brian Jones. I had a call from Sarah -- Sarah Rosenthal? She said you were writing an article and had some questions about Willatuk.”

“Yes!” Sam exclaimed before he could stop himself. He coughed as he fished in his jacket for his pad of paper. “Information has been hard to come by. What can you tell me?”

“Well, I mean, not much.” Brian sounded dubious. “Until me, my great-grandfather had been the last to do the ritual, and that was when he was a young man. It’s not really a story we keep alive anymore.”

Sam swallowed. “You’ve done the ritual?” he asked, sure he had misheard.

“For my great-aunt. My great-grandfather had just died, and she was worried that the tradition was going to die with him, and so…” Brian made a noncommittal noise. “I felt ridiculous, but it made her happy. That was fifteen years ago?”

Licking his lips, Sam decided to throw caution to the wind. “And did Willatuk show?”

There was a pause. “Willatuk isn’t real,” Brian said slowly, as though unsure whether Sam was joking. “It’s a legend, an oral tradition, not an actual thing. A coming-of-age ceremony for young men of the tribe.”

“But your great-grandfather,” Sam pressed. “Did he ever tell stories about Willatuk? About his own ritual?” His mind calculated back; would it have been too late for Brian’s great-grandfather to have encountered Willatuk? Would Puget Sound already have become a major port with shipping lanes and seawalls?

“Yeah,” Brian said, “but -- look, he was old. He probably convinced himself he’d seen something. He probably saw a seal.”

“Brian,” Sam said seriously. “I need to know everything you can possibly tell me about Willatuk and about the ritual. Where does it live? What does it eat? What exactly happens during the ritual? How often did people do it?”

“It doesn’t live anywhere,” Brian replied, “because it isn’t real. We’re not idiots. Our stories were allegory and metaphors, not literal transcriptions of our beliefs. Or do you think we looked at the fog and agreed that Fog-Hat Man had paid us a visit?” His voice was scathing now.

“I’m not trying to insult you,” Sam interjected quickly. “Really, I’m not. I’m sorry if I have. I have reason to believe that the legend of Willatuk may have been based around a real creature at some point, and I’m trying to reverse-engineer the legend back into what may have been. That’s all.”

Brian was quiet for several moments; Sam worried he was on the brink of hanging up, but resisted the urge to try and explain further. It would probably only do more damage at this point, if what he was saying was actually insulting. “None of the stories said where Willatuk lived,” Brian said finally. “In the traditional ritual, the young hunter’s family would be on shore, drumming a steady beat, while the hunter paddled out to the deep water and offered blood. I didn’t have family to drum for me. Once Willatuk would appear, the battle would begin. Willatuk never pressed for too long. If the hunter drew blood, with his spear or his knife, Willatuk would concede. He was clever. Willatuk wanted human hunters in his waters: hunters took down the weak and left the strong, which was good for every living thing. As thanks, the hunter would offer three canoes of salmon for Willatuk to feast upon, so that Willatuk would not need to hunt while he recovered from his wounds.”

Sam’s hand was cramping as he took all this down as rapidly as he could. “The drumming. Was there a particular rhythm?”

“Just a measured beat, a little slower than a heartbeat,” Brian replied.

“And --” Sam swallowed. “Did any hunters ever lose, to your knowledge?”

“In the stories, some canoes came back empty,” Brian said. “Those families were not allowed to hunt, only gather.”

“Oh.” Sam took a breath. “But he -- Willatuk didn’t hunt humans? He only came to fight them when he was summoned?”

Brian made another noncommittal noise. “I never heard anything to the contrary.”

“Does it have to be a firstborn son?”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Brian replied thoughtfully. “It just tended to be the way families were structured. It was usually the older son who would help the father provide for the family. But they weren’t nuclear families like modern culture gravitates towards -- villages raised children, not individual parents. I guess the firstborn thing didn’t really matter.”

Sam stared at his notes for a moment, then underlined the word salmon three times. “Okay. Thank you, Brian, for everything, and again, I meant no disrespect and I’m sorry if I said something stupid.”

“Thank you,” Brian said simply. “I hope it helped.” In a slightly more friendly tone, “When the feds open the island again, you should come take the tour. Tell them Brian said he’d comp your ticket.”

“I’ll do that,” Sam promised. “Have a good day, and thanks again.”

Phone warm from being pressed against his face, Sam stood to shove it into his pocket and nearly flung himself down to the deck, almost colliding with Cas as he emerged from the cabin, urgency written clearly upon his face.

“Dean’s alive,” Cas said before Sam could say anything. “He prayed, just now.”

Sam blinked. “You -- you said you can’t hear prayers anymore,” he said gently, wondering if Cas was familiar enough with dreams to be able to tell them apart from reality.

Cas shook his head. “I can’t. Not normally. But this…” he looked at Sam intently. “This was Dean. He’s still alive. We can still save him.” He turned his gaze to the water. “I can still save him.”

Sam let out his breath in a long whoosh. It was very difficult to argue with Cas when he adopted a tone that serious. “Looks like we need a literal boatload of fish, then.”

 

* * *

  
  


Whatever Dean had thought was thirst before needed a new name.

The pebble he’d been sucking on to try and work some moisture into his mouth stuck to his lips as he spat it out. Useless. He’d known it had been useless, but he’d needed to do something to resist the deadly urge to drag himself to the water’s edge and drink the water he’d find there, assuming he could even do so without falling in. The voice of one of his high school biology teachers faded in and out of his thoughts, reminding him what happened to cells when people dying of thirst drank salt water. He almost decided he didn’t care, if only he could get his tongue wet again, if only he could swallow again.

He shifted, very slightly, and his ribs for a moment overrode the desperate thirst that had gripped all of his attention. He closed his eyes, breathing as shallowly as he could, trying to push his torso up with his arms to take some of the weight off his chest.

He was on his stomach now, thanks to Willatuk returning and nosing him roughly from his back to his front. It had almost seemed like the great beast had recoiled when Dean had let out a feral howl of pain at the movement, sure that something was ripping in his chest wall as he thudded to his front, scattering the pebbles he laid upon and panting shallowly. Willatuk was still there, had not bothered him since Dean’s shout, and Dean’s tongue darted out to attempt to wet his lips.

“Willatuk,” he called, voice hoarse and scratchy. “Listen, man -- if I gotta be your hors d'oeuvre, or whatever, you do your thing. But you gotta stop killing people who aren’t signing up for it.”

If the monster heard or understood him, it gave no indication. Dean sighed and let his head fall to the ground.

Suddenly, faintly, he felt reverberations -- steady, constant, like the bass beat at a rock concert shaking the ground in the parking lot.

Willatuk moved, the faint sound echoing through the cave, and it let out a muffled sort of grunt as it slid into the water again. Dean didn’t even cringe as the water washed over him, tugging at his limbs; he was too tired.

The pebbles bumped against him, moving strangely in the water. They didn’t quite float, but they seemed more willing to move than rocks should. Dean caught one as it settled after the wave and rolled it in his fingers. Pumice, of some sort? Wood?

No, he realized, the knowledge creeping over his skin like rancid oil. Bone. Chips of waterlogged bone.

 

* * *

  
  


“Three canoes” is a nonstandard unit of measurement; after some consideration, both Sam and Cas had agreed that three thirty-gallon plastic tubs would suffice for the modern equivalent.

Said tubs, filled to the brim with pink-fleshed salmon, were strapped securely in the stern of the boat as they sped across the water. The early afternoon sun glinting through the glass and plastic of the cockpit made sweat bead across Cas’s forehead, which he wiped away with impatience. The boat skipped across the waves in good time, but it was still the better part of an hour before Sam knocked the engine into idle and leaned back.

“We ready to do this thing?” he asked, twisted to look at Cas.

Cas bobbed a single terse nod. Compulsion to do something tied a knot in his middle, the knowledge that Dean was alive and believed he was dying spurring him into a restlessness that had not dissipated over the several hours it had taken to procure the fish.

“All right. You dump, I’ll drum, and let’s hope Willatuk has really good hearing.”

  
  


* * *

 

 

Dean had a plan.

It was a stupid plan, he was willing to admit, but it was leaps and bounds better than becoming a part of the anonymous bone pile in the cave of a prehistoric sea monster, so he was going to go with it.

By listening very carefully when Willatuk had awoken and left again, he’d been able to determine in which direction the creature swam to leave the cave. That way had to lead to a tunnel to the open water. Dean didn’t know why it kept leaving -- why leave to hunt when it had a Dean-sized snack right there? -- unless it had something to do with the thumping vibrations in the bedrock that formed the cave. They hadn’t halted in the past several hours, and Willatuk seemed agitated by them, not resting for more than a few minutes before leaving the cave again.

If there was a tunnel, Dean might be able to get to it. He was in no condition to dive, but if he hugged this rock to his chest -- and this was a rock, heavy and solid, not just a large hunk of bone -- he should be able to roll into the water and sink until he could see some glimmer of light that would tell him which way the tunnel was. Willatuk was big: even if the tunnel had twists and turns it would have to be wide enough to let at least a little light through. It wouldn’t even need to be bright, considering how his light-starved eyes must be dilated to their fullest. He’d be able to see even the faintest haze.

If he could see. That was still somewhat in doubt. Dean tried not to think of that detail.

Once he figured out which direction to go, perhaps he’d miraculously recover from his concussion and broken ribs and general lethargy and soreness to be able to swim to the open water and make it to the surface before he drowned.

It was a dumb plan, but so was waiting around to die.

  
  


* * *

 

 

The fish floated in a giant silver-and-pink mosaic on the surface of the water, bobbing over the small waves of the boat as Sam continued to thump against the fiberglass side in an even, measured beat. He looked up at Cas, who was standing at the stern and holding the rail tightly, knuckles white.

“Cas? You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Cas replied flatly.

He wasn’t; that much was as obvious to Sam as the bruise that was flowering impressively on the angel’s temple from the knock to the head a few hours ago. Had it really been less than a day? “I was just thinking. When Willatuk shows up...can you…?” He made a gesture that he hoped suggested some sort of mind meld.

Cas glanced to the side in time to see the gesture, and the hard lines of his face softened, just slightly. “No,” he said. “I can -- could -- with domesticated creatures. I think Willatuk is far from domesticated.”

Sam’s shoulder and back were beginning to hurt from the constant drumming. He turned his gaze to the edge of the spread of salmon and gasped at a flicker of motion. “Cas!”

Cas’s head whipped around, then he slumped. “Just a seal,” he said. “Shoo,” he said to the seal, “that’s not for you.”

The seal, of course, didn’t listen, gnawing appreciatively at the flesh of the raw fish. Sam wondered if that was going to be the fate of all three tubs of salmon when movement at the corner of his eye caught something much, much larger, and he was throwing himself into the cockpit before he quite realized what he was doing.

“Keep an eye on him!” he bellowed to Cas, who had backed away from the railing to hold onto something solid. The exposed ignition wires sparked and the boat’s engine coughed to life once again, but this all took precious time; as Sam turned the boat Willatuk had already downed the last of the salmon and had dived back under the waves.

“I can see him!” Cas shouted, pointing. “That way! That way!”

Sam gunned it, and the boat sluggishly began to pick up speed toward Blake Island.

 

* * *

  
  


By Dean’s count, he’d spent nearly two minutes hyperventilating.

He knew he wouldn’t be able to manage a big gulp of air before his dive, not with his ribs as they were, but if he hyperventilated, he hoped he’d be able to get enough oxygen in his system to not need a lungful of air for a decent amount of time.

It did nothing to help his sickening light-headedness, and the motion of his ribs even with the quick, shallow breaths was starting to burn across his chest. Fearing he’d do more harm than good before long, he clasped the rock to his chest, took as deep a breath as he could stand, and rolled into the water before he could talk himself out of it.

The cold shock of the water pierced the numbness that had clung to his mind like cobwebs, and as he sank he could see a faint glow ahead of him. Kicking out as hard as he could, he propelled himself towards it, fighting the urge to grunt with pain as the muscles of his arms pulled against the muscles of his chest with the effort of holding the rock.

The water around him glowed a brighter and brighter green, and with a jolt he realized he was out in open water, without dark pressing him on all sides, and even though the light was murky it still stabbed at his eyes. He let the rock tumble from his arms and tried to paddle upwards as he began to float to the surface, but his chest and throat were burning and he knew, as his body turned traitor and he opened his mouth to gasp in air that wasn’t there, that he wasn’t going to make it.

Stars pinwheeled behind his eyes, the bubbles from his nose and mouth sparkling silver in the light, and as Dean retreated into the calm of unconsciousness he offered one tiny thought:

_Cas. Sammy. Sorry. I tried._

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

“Do you see him?” Sam yelled, eyes scanning the water before them. He didn’t dare get closer to the shore, even if the water looked deep enough, and risk tearing out the bottom of the boat on the rocks.

“We lost him,” Cas replied, squinting into the reflection of the sun off the water.

“Dammit,” Sam muttered, smacking the steering wheel in frustration. He let the engine fall into idle, and the boat drifted forward until it lost its momentum. He could mark their coordinates, go get more fish, and try again to follow the creature --

“DEAN!” Cas bellowed, and Sam twisted in the chair to see Cas take two running steps forward and then throw himself off the deck into the water.

“CAS!” Sam shouted, but Cas had disappeared beneath the dark water, diving down, leaving nothing but a trail of bubbles behind him. An impossible hope struck deep in Sam’s chest like a chord, and he jumped down from the cockpit and began unwinding the rope of the life preserver from around its hooks.

He waited, poised to throw the life preserver.

And waited.

Did Cas even know how to swim, or was he just winging it?

Sam shifted, on the verge of jumping into the water himself, when the surface of the water some twenty feet away broke with a noisy splash. Knees weak with relief, Sam tossed the life preserver as best he could, hauling on the rope once Cas grabbed it, ignoring the rope burn on his hands as Cas got closer and Sam could see the limp, lifeless form that Cas was towing.

There was only just enough room on the deck to lay Dean out, limbs flopping, and Sam wasted no time straddling his stomach and locking his fingers over his brother’s chest. He counted out the compressions in short gasps, only vaguely noticing that Cas had dropped to kneel at Dean’s head, and when he reached thirty and looked to Cas, the angel nodded and leaned down, taking hold of Dean’s jaw and forcing two long breaths into Dean’s mouth.

“He has a pulse,” Cas said shakily as Sam began compressions again, “but it’s weak and he’s still not breathing.”

Sam shook his head, not wanting to waste breath on talking, ignoring the way the boat was beginning to rock with the force of his compressions. He counted off thirty more, paused for Cas to give two more breaths, and then continued the cycle, quickly losing track of how many times they had switched off. Sam was on the verge of telling Cas to take over while he radioed for help when, as he counted off compression number twenty, Dean began to cough.

“Over to the side,” Cas said firmly, and they got Dean to the edge of the deck just in time for him to vomit forth a stream of bloody water, gagging at the end of it, shoulders heaving.

“I’m getting us to the mainland,” Sam said shortly, pushing himself to his feet. “You got this?”

“I got this,” Cas said seriously, rubbing roughly at Dean’s back as Dean continued coughing and sputtering.

Sam slammed the throttle into full speed, pulling his phone from his pocket and dialing 911. Best to have an ambulance waiting when they got to the marina. Dean would be pissed, but Sam had felt the broken ribs and maneuvering Dean up the steps that led to the marina parking lot, into the car, and to a hospital was out of the question. Dean would just have to be pissed off for a little while.

“911, what is your emergency?” The calm voice asked.

Sam took a breath. “My brother and I are out on a boat by Blake Island. He nearly drowned. We did CPR and he’s breathing and we’re on our way to the Seattle marina…”

  
  


* * *

 

 

If Dean hadn’t been so tired, he’d be pissed.

After what felt like an age of being poked and prodded and moved and hassled, he’d finally been arranged in a room for overnight observation. The other bed in the room had no occupant, unless he wanted to count Cas perched on the edge of it.

“I’m amazed you’re still alive,” the resident in the emergency room had said bluntly.

To be perfectly honest, Dean was, as well.

“They want you in here for at least three days,” Sam said, closing the door behind him as he entered.

“Yeah, that’s not happening,” Dean croaked, swallowing hard. “We still have a sea monster problem.”

“Dean, don’t make me sit on you,” Sam threatened, but Dean waved a hand.

“I know what’s keeping him awake.” Sam’s mouth snapped shut in surprise. Cas leaned forward. Dean took as deep a breath as he could manage before continuing. “There’s something that’s shaking the bedrock. Not an earthquake, it’s too regular. Something like --”

“Drumming,” Cas interjected.

“Yeah. Drumming. I could feel it in the cave.” Dean shrugged, or at least tried to. “No idea what it is, but it’s bothering him.”

“Not bothering him,” Sam said slowly, as though working something out. “Summoning him.”

“What?” Dean asked.

“To summon him, the family of the guy doing the ritual would drum,” Sam said, pulling a pad of paper from his jacket pocket. “Like this.” He thudded the heel of his hand against his thigh in a steady beat, and Dean nodded.

“That’s it. It went all day.”

“That’s why it’s not taking the victims and then going back to sleep,” Cas said. “It thinks it can’t. It’s trying to find who is challenging him.”

“I’ll bet you good money that both of the victims cut themselves accidentally, on a knife or fishing hook, and bled into the water,” Sam said excitedly. “That, combined with whatever was doing the drumming --”

“But what’s doing the drumming?” Dean cut in. “I mean, this would have to be something big. Huge, to reverb through the bedrock like that.”

Cas stood suddenly, blinking. “Big Bertha.”

Sam cocked his head to the side. “What?”

“There was a newspaper article I read in Coeur d’Alene,” Cas continued. “Look up Big Bertha on your phone. It’s a -- a drill, a giant drill, that Seattle is using to dig a tunnel for an underground highway. It’s been broken, and now it’s working again, which was why it was in the newspaper.”

“There’s video,” Sam said shortly, tapping the screen of his phone. Several silent seconds passed as the video loaded, and then the audio played -- and behind the shouted narration of the newscaster, a steady beat as the drill churned behind her.

“That’s gotta be it,” Dean said. “It’s the drill. It woke Willatuk up, now it thinks it’s being summoned left and right and it’s challenging everyone who bleeds into the water.”

“Not killing them,” Sam added. “They found the other body a little while ago, and he died of exposure and drowning.”

“How do you know that?” Cas asked quizzically.

“Heard it on the radio when we were coming in,” Sam admitted. “I was eavesdropping on the Coast Guard.”

“Okay, great,” Dean said, shaking his head. “We know what’s going on. How do we stop it?”

“We stop the drilling,” Cas said immediately.

“We can’t stop the drilling,” Sam replied. “It’s a multi-billion dollar infrastructure project.”

“Well, we sure as hell aren’t gonna stop Willatuk,” Dean replied, scratching at the crook of his elbow where an IV cannula was pushed into the scab from the previous afternoon’s bloodletting.

“I’d think you’d be kinda gung-ho about ganking Willatuk after this,” Sam pointed out.

Dean pursed his lips. “He could have killed me,” he said, trying to order his thoughts. “And he didn’t. I don’t know why. But you said the lore says he’s not a maneater. He’s just...doing what he does. It’s not his fault.”

“It’s not a raccoon’s fault when it gets rabies, either, but they still put it down,” Sam said, but he looked uncomfortable.

“This isn’t a raccoon,” Cas said quietly. “It’s an entire peoples’ way of life, even if it’s not practiced anymore. It’s heritage.”

“Heritage that is chomping people.” Dean rubbed his eyes. “There’s no good answer, is there?”

“Not that I can think of.” Sam checked his watch. “It’s nearly two in the morning. Dean, you should get some rest.”

Dean looked pointedly at the machines surrounding him. “I’m tethered. I ain’t going anywhere.” He shot a sidelong glance at Cas. “But you two should.”

“I’m not leaving,” Cas said instantly, as Dean knew he would.

Sam looked like he didn’t want to leave, either, but he stood. “I’ll be back in a few hours with clothes and some of our stuff,” he said reluctantly. “Maybe we can find another angle.”

Sam had been gone for perhaps five seconds before Cas pulled a chair closer to Dean’s bedside. “How are you really, Dean?” he asked softly.

“Peachy,” Dean replied flatly. “Really,” he insisted at Cas’s dubious eyebrow raise. “Now that I’m not running on empty…” He held up his right arm. The Mark of Cain stood out in livid red, the sleeve of the hospital gown too short to cover it as Dean preferred.

Cas’s eyes narrowed. “Dean,” he said gravely, “You can’t...its influence…”

“I can’t do much about it,” Dean replied in a gruff voice. “It’s gonna keep on keepin’ on. And that means keeping me alive. I could eat three horses and then sleep for a week, but I bet my ass that tomorrow morning, nurses won’t find a thing wrong with me.”

“There’s going to be a price.”

“There’s always a price. If I could stop it, I would.” Dean let his arm fall against his side.

“I will find a way to get rid of it,” Cas said after several moments filled only by the beeping of the monitors.

“You’ve saved me once already today,” Dean replied. “Pace yourself.”

  
  


* * *

 

 

It wasn’t until he was startled awake by a nurse gently taking his vital signs that Dean realized he had drifted off. He watched her scribble on the whiteboard on the opposite wall before leaving, then glanced at the chair next to his bed.

“You gonna stay there all right?” he asked.

Cas just nodded. “It’s kind of what I do.”

That should have irritated Dean. Instead, he closed his eyes and let himself fall slowly asleep again, somehow comforted.

  
  


* * *

 

 

“No fluid appears to be accumulating in the lungs,” the doctor said the next morning, “and your vitals all look excellent. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were wasting your time here.”

“Well then, how about I get out of here and stop wasting everyone’s time?” Dean asked, shooting a disarming smile at the doctor. Sam snorted, and then his hand went to his pocket as it began to buzz. He caught Dean’s eye and held up his ringing phone, then stepped out into the hallway.

“This is John.”

“John. It’s Brian. From yesterday?” The docent sounded terrified.

“Yeah, Brian, hi. Is everything okay?”

“Can this phone number get pictures?” Brian asked.

“Yeah. What’s wrong?” There was no response for several seconds, just a rustling sound that Sam assumed was Brian sending a picture.

“I just sent you a picture of what’s wrong. You’d never believe me if I told you.”

Sam bit back a sarcastic response to that and lowered his phone to look at the picture, then brought the phone back to his ear, all hints of a smile erased. “When did that happen?”

“I found it just now, jogging around the island.”

Sam checked his watch. “That definitely wasn’t there about four o’clock yesterday. Has anyone else seen it?”

“Campground is closed, Coast Guard isn’t patrolling anymore, and everyone else who lives on the island left when the island was shut down. Can you get out here? Do you have a boat?”

Not anymore. “No.”

“I’ll come get you in mine.”

“Give me -- give us about an hour,” Sam amended. “We’ll meet you at the docks.”

The doctor was leaving Dean’s room as Sam strode hurriedly back. “Just remind your brother to sign out at the nurse’s station,” she said cheerfully, “And make sure he gets a lot of rest the next few days. His discharge papers will have all his care instructions.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Sam said politely, and he slid past her into the room.

A nurse was already removing Dean’s IV, but Sam ignored her and queued up the picture Brian had sent him onto his phone screen.

“What’s --” Dean began, but stopped as Sam shoved the phone into his face. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Sam looked at the screen again before pocketing the phone. “Brian’s picking us up by boat. You ready to go?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Dean replied, wincing as the nurse pulled out his IV.

 

* * *

  
  


They spoke very little on the boat aside from introductions. It wasn’t much more than a dinghy, and didn’t make very good time, but Brian seemed disinclined to chat.

It was not a long walk from the dock on Blake Island to the beach on the other side, and as they topped the rise that led down to the rocky shoreline, all of them paused.

Dean spoke first. “He’s bigger than I thought.”

Cautiously, they approached the giant beached bulk of Willatuk, the crunch of the rocks under their shoes and the waves the only sound.

“It’s dead,” Brian said, the first words he’d uttered in more than an hour. “I checked.” He looked around at them, a little wildly. “This -- this is it, isn’t it? This is Willatuk?”

“This is Willatuk,” Cas confirmed gently.

“And you were looking for it.” Brian stared at it for a moment before blurting out, “Did you kill it?”

“No,” Sam said quickly. “No, we didn’t do anything to it.”

“We did feed it,” Cas interjected.

“We fed it salmon!” Sam replied. “It eats salmon!”

Up near the head of the creature, which had to house a skull nearly the size of a Vespa, Dean crouched down, reaching out a trembling hand to touch the scaly hide with something akin to reverence. It was cold and clammy, the teeth of the open mouth worn down to dullness, the open eye cloudy. “Guys,” he said, and they stopped talking at his tone of voice. “Look at it. It’s got cataracts. Its teeth are like butter knives. And look at its scales, they’re all...translucent. It’s...I think maybe it was just really old.” He blinked. “That’s why it didn’t eat me. I was too fighty. It kept leaving its cave to find easier food.”

“We fed it its last meal, then,” Sam said, and then no one said anything for a long while.

“What do we do about it?” Brian asked finally.

Dean shared a glance with Sam. “I don’t think we have the right to make that decision,” Sam said. “Willatuk belonged to you, and your ancestors. Is this reservation land?” At Brian’s nod, Sam took a breath. “I think it’s up to you and your tribe to decide how best to put Willatuk to rest.”

Very slowly, Brian nodded. “I’ll...my great-aunt will know what to do,” he said faintly. He suddenly looked much younger than his thirty-some-odd years. He looked up helplessly. “All this time, it’s been real?”

“You’d be surprised at what’s real in the world,” Dean said, and grimaced at how uncomforting the words were. “Good and bad,” he added.

A single gull cried overhead, and Sam, Cas, and Dean walked away a short distance to give the last hunter to challenge Willatuk a moment alone with his thoughts.

  
  


* * *

 

 

Cas emerged from the gas station mini-mart, the plastic bag at his side containing all the paraphernalia he knew Dean was prone to purchase for long drives. Dean was leaning against the hood of the Impala, staring into the distance without a focal point, hands in his pockets.

“I don’t know how we could have fixed that,” he said without looking at Cas as he approached.

“I don’t either,” Cas replied honestly. He held up the plastic bag. “For you and Sam.”

Dean took it. “This is where we part ways, then?” he asked, too casually.

“We always seem to,” Cas replied, a tiny hope unwinding in his belly.

“Yeah,” Dean said, carefully setting the bag on the hood of the car, “it’s kind of stupid, really.” He looked up. “Unless you don’t wanna be around me anymore.”

Cas swallowed. “Why would I want that?”

Dean smirked -- at himself, Cas could tell. “I kind of friendzoned you hardcore.”

“Dean,” Cas said, stepping closer to lean against the hood of the car next to Dean, “I value our friendship. If this is the nature of our relationship -- I’m satisfied.”

Dean turned to look at Cas. “You serious?”

“Of course.”

“Because I don’t know if this --” he gestured between the two of them -- “will ever be more.”

“How could it possibly be more than it already is?” Cas asked.

Dean swallowed. “Like this,” he said, and he leaned forward, hand going to the side of Cas’s face and pulling it toward his.

Dean was more hesitant than Cas would have imagined; Cas wanted to press, wanted to lose himself against Dean’s mouth, but held back, letting Dean determine the course. It was over too soon, but Cas did not open his eyes as Dean rested his forehead against Cas’s, not letting go of Cas’s face.

“Dean,” he said softly, “I don’t want to put you into an uncomfortable situation.”

“I’ll decide if I’m uncomfortable,” Dean said quietly. “I don’t know how far I wanna take this, but if you’re okay with that…”

“I am.”

Dean nodded once, leaning back. Cas finally opened his eyes, his cheek still warm where Dean had touched it, and he watched as Dean removed the fuel nozzle. “You wanna stick around with us for a while? There’s a spare room at the Bunker,” Dean said nonchalantly.

“I’d like that,” Cas replied with a rare smile.

“Good.” Dean grabbed the plastic bag from the hood. “Get in, angel-face. Twenty more hours to Lebanon.”

Cas slid into the backseat, fingertips still tingling with the happy disbelief of their exchange.

“What are you looking at?” Dean asked Sam in a challenging voice from the front seat, and Sam snorted.

“Me? Nothing. Nothing at all.” Sam was looking resolutely out his window, but Cas could see the broad grin on his face, and Cas couldn’t help but be of the opinion that even if the situation in the waters of Puget Sound had worked itself out without their assistance, the trip had not been a complete waste of time.


End file.
